


It’s His World Of Dread And Fear

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [5]
Category: Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet
Genre: A/B/O verse, Alternate Universe, Band Break Up, Charity Single, Chart Toppers, Christmas, Concerts, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Germany, LADS NIGHT OUT, M/M, Men Crying, Morning After, Old Friends, Rivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: It’s about time these pop stars began to realise the hysteria their image could cause and use it for the supposedly greater good.Though unfortunately for John, there’s a world outside Concorde’s window. And it’s a world of dread and fear, for a soon to be rockstar parent.Set November 24th and 25th 1984, recording for the Band Aid charity single.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is the Band Aid fic that nobody ever wanted or needed. And yes, the title is one of the lines Simon and Sting sing together.
> 
> Loosely based off of the endless stories of Duran and Spandau getting drunk together the night before recording Band Aid on November 25th 1984.

_The Night Of Friday November 23rd, Munich 1984_

**_“… entertainment news, ex- Boomtown Rats frontman plans a rescue operation for the starving children in Ethiopia…”_ **

****

The word was out, Bob Geldof and Midge Ure were recruiting popstars for a charity single, unlike anything the music world had ever known.

Swallowing nervously, John cranked up the volume to the TV set; ignoring the body beside him.

**_“… enlisting MTV’s finest for a currently unknown title charity single, set to be recorded any day now and out in time for Christ—”_ **

****

The footage from Michael Buerk at the _BBC_ had caused such a stir that Duran had been drafted in. Being a close friend of Geldof’s, Simon was immediately on board though the Duran tour in Europe had been cut oddly short. John supposed they had to be, as the so-called biggest band on the planet.

“ _Christ_.” He sighed, breath ticking John’s bare back.

They had the largest following, world wide appeal. Though Geldof recruiting them in his ‘good riddance famine’ project did appear a cheap shot to John, ultimately the fab five had to agree.  
  


**_“… the project has already been causing much controversy, asking the world what can a bunch of coked-up pop stars have to offer the cause…”_ **

Crawling about on the bed, head swirling and stomach slightly bloated, John gulped down his fear to face them. Lost in the cream sheets, resting against the headboard; John crept his way over to his front man, knowing he wouldn’t be calling him his front man for much longer.

The bassist leant down, absentmindedly pressing a small kiss to Simon’s cheek. Voice small, eyes on his own stomach instead of Simon’s face, John stuttered through his very few words. “Thank you for…” _staying here with me, tonight._

Simon nodded, wrapping a strong and supportive arm around John. For what he knew to be the last time, for a very long time.

Only days ago had John and Andy revealed their plans. Their getaway, their year abroad. John was writing and planning, anything to keep his mind running, anything to get himself out of Simon’s spotlight. To get their _child_ out of this under developed picture. The bassist had sent a heavy look Simon’s way, bleary eyes screaming his need to be held. It was a miracle, hasty touches and quick kisses. A miracle that now they were sharing a suite, that didn’t mean they were sharing a bed.

Simon had done enough, John couldn’t bear to have him _inside_ again. Getting deeper into his winter, John had let enough of the front man's heat in.

“Thank you for _this_.” John breathed, droopy eyelids forcing their way back to the television set. Keeping purposefully vague, John motioned to the space of the grand suite around them. The tinsel on the walls, the glistening golden lights decorating the tree. The gleaming angel topping it.

  
  


He hadn’t even realised that Simon’s lips were absentmindedly brushing his neck, sweeping his overgrown locks to the side. John’s heavy gaze was fixed to the television set, horrific footage of the famine plastered to every news channel, there was a blearing countdown running through his mind.

_Tomorrow, filming then drinks with Spandau. The following morning, a private jet back to Heathrow. November 25 th1984: Band Aid._

The biggest names in British pop were going to be there, George Michael, Paul Young, Sting and Phil Collins with a side order of Marilyn and Jody Watley, psyching out the competition. Fighting to sing solo, who would be opening the number now Bowie couldn’t make it? _Status Quo, Culture Club_ and _Bananarama._ Jockeying for camera time, running the tape thin.

“John, what is it?”

Of course John was petrified, of course the bassist was on edge. As it stood, only Roger was aware of his life altering secret. John wasn’t sure how quiet he could keep, zipping up and throwing away his key.

“Johnny please, turn off the telly. Talk to me.”

Shaking his head, John forced himself to remember that Simon was in the room. He simply waved the front man off before rising to his feet, shuffling over the carpet to his bed. A mere two metres from Simon’s single bed John now lay, rocking slightly. Eyes wide, lips pursed. Disturbed, almost.

“John, when do you fly out?”

_To New York, to escape the ghost of you._ “Monday morning, you know, after recordin’ and all on Sunday.”

There was no response.

For whatever reason, John felt the sudden need to add: “I’ll be back start of December, we’ve got _Pop Quiz_ with Mike Read. Against friggin’ Spandau.”

_And we’re booked for MTV at New Years,_ John didn’t say. He didn’t want to remind himself of that commitment, knowing he’ll have to be with Simon again. Even more commitments, playing in the US…

John was terrified to share the stage with Simon when he was no longer on Simon’s side. Even with Simon’s baby, he was petrified for the spotlight.

With a grunt, “anything else?"

"Erm... you remember all those years ago where you said that ya'd be _petrified_ of singing with Sting?"

There was a sigh, John grumbled to himself.

"Goodnight John.”

Turned away from him, John found himself straightening up as the growl of the sheets being tossed aside, a body plummeting into the white, deafened him. He didn’t have to look, didn’t want to look, Simon was facing away from him. Pretending to be asleep, probably, staring blankly at the tacky patterns on the walls.

John almost asked for a kiss goodnight. The light snore telling him, again he was too late.


	2. Chapter 2

_Saturday November 24th, 1984_

Recording for _Tommy’s Pop Show_ had ran surprisingly well. Watching from the sidelines, clutching tight to his beloved Aria Pro, John found himself getting lost in _Spandau Ballet’s_ performance. Thinking it odd, that he really hadn’t met their old adversaries to perform in years. 1980, if memory served him, in that boozy Blitz Kid central hangout that he and the then new frontman took a trip too. Before both bands were signed. Before both bands were posters plastered to hundreds of thousands of walls worldwide, laying down hit after hit and making revolutionary videos to match them.

The biannual smash hit event was the only talk of the town, talk of the _country_ infact: having the biggest bands to come out of the UK play to the German fans at once. The media fuelled ‘rivalry’ as it were, was rife and publicity immense.

Spandau had really hit the mark tonight in Munich, John couldn’t deny.

Sending a slightly shaky hand down, resting on the right side of his stomach, John tried to bite back the thoughts as to why. Why that would be... Duran were shaken, stirred by his career changing choice of martini. They needed a break, they were sick and tired of bickering, touring, of one another and yet no one could voice that.

Splitting up — _wait! We can’t, we… we’re not… are we?_ — seemed to be the only logical progression. Even if it was tearing the bassist up inside, seeing the love of his life take to that stage first. Seeing the love of his life take to their stage.

They really wouldn’t have that many stages left to grace _together_ now, would they?

John had totally spaced out, missing his cue. Though that Colombian shit he had snorted that morning hadn’t really gone to his head, he decided to blame his earlier throwing up on that. Why he felt he was simply floating, stumbling about, more than simply phasing in and out of Simon’s space.

He had been called. The band were waiting for him. If Andy’s eyes weren’t shielded, he would surely be rolling them and forming a retort that most definitely could not be aired at this hour. Nick was glaring his way, plum lips pursed. Roger… well, he too appeared as spaced out as John, shucking himself away behind his kit. And Simon, bloody hell, had simply risen a golden blonde brow. He appeared bored, almost, that wasn’t a good sign.

Trotting over, bass slung about halfheartedly, he was plugged in and ready to go. For, uh, John had already forgotten — _Wild Boys! That’s the one, you moron_ — which song was first on the bill.

Simon well and truly appeared bored, done, even if he was smiling and growling his way through Seven song after Seven song. To say that Duran weren’t a bunch of ragged tigers that night was an understatement. The sound was raw, timings iffy… Maybe the singer had really been onto something with that title, John believed, calling it over a year ago.

Tired. Stressed. Overworked. The group were only a shadow of the band the world used to know. John wanted out and out he would get, throwing his bass off to the side: headed for the dressing rooms. Headed for the limo back to the hotel. 

***  
  


Sliding in as close to the far window as John could get, he payed little attention to the bodies that followed. They were in two camps as it were, the two Taylors with all the guitar _power,_ and the synth pop duo. Poor Roger, indeed.

Andy had snuck in beside him, muttering whatever the hell about _Arena_ and it’s release on the 12th. _Wild Boys’_ chart position, it was now at #2. John nodded along, staring aimlessly at the window before pawing for a magazine.

Bringing back a _Vogue Deutsch_ cover, he momentarily studied the model on the front. Finding her, _die neue Deutsche Frau,_ far more interesting and comforting than Nick’s blithering on about Spandau this and Spandau that. Or Simon’s remarks on how shit their set had really been. Her eyes were a frosty blue, a radiant turquoise. Her lids were dusted with pasty pink, complimenting her tan pallet ever so nicely. She had plump lips that were teasingly parted, a deep stare that was boring into John. Calling to him, almost, he was enrapt in her beauty. Subtle contour; a delightful blush on her cheeks. John found himself staring deeper and deeper at the cover, almost reeling the magazine in to kiss her, to kiss over her lips and—

“Look at this fag, already choosin’ his next bitch!”

John dropped the magazine.

He was now headed to the bar with the _Vogue_ catalogue still in hand. _Where had the limo gone?_

“Simon? Have you two really called it quits then? That’s why he wants a bird, now?” Someone called, John couldn’t quite work out… wait.


	3. Chapter 3

He dropped the magazine, turning round pathetically slow. Scared by the new shadow, as it were, that invaded his space.

“John? Sorry man, did I say something wrong?”

“Keep ya voice down, Tony!” John hissed back, a hand on his chest. Hoping to stop his sudden sped up heart rate, reminding himself that he was faced with friend not foe.

“Relax!” Keeble shucked up at his front man’s side out of nowhere. “Come and have a drink with us, JT.”

“Erm…” _No. Don’t do it. You know you shouldn’t you ignorant piece of—_

“Johnny!”

At that voice, John couldn’t help but grin.

“Gary!” He replied, suddenly perking up. Gary had always been his favourite, the easiest to get along with. And, at that whatsit rap party last year, he had learned that this Kemp could drink him under the table. John almost demanded a rematch.

“Is everythin’ okay, mate?” The other guitarist, keyboardist, whatever, began with a hand on John’s shoulder. “What happened to the others?”

“What others?” John paused, quickly surveying the scene.

_Duran Duran_ were no where to be seen. The bastards.

“The bastards ‘ave gone and bloomin’ _left_ me, it seems.” _Or have I left them?_ He was in a slight state of shock, in this swanky hotel lobby, further rubbing shoulders with the ‘enemy.’

“Or did _you_ leave _them?_ ” The other Kemp spoke up, in that delightfully gruff voice of his. “Brummie git.”

“Shove off!” John replied in good nature, feeling more like himself as he was reeled in by Martin for a lads hug.

Though every gut instinct, literally the foetus swirling merrily in his gut, told him not too: a small voice in the back of John’s head (that sounded eerily close to Roger) told him that _yes_. He could do this. He could spend a little time with the Spandau guys, have a coke and nothing more. He could make it through this night unscathed.

John would’ve rather flown back to England on _Concorde_ alone than spent another night with his front man too close for comfort. Or alone himself. Alone with the pretty Danish lady on the front cover of his magazine.

John agreed. The other John led them all to the bar, immediately ordering himself a _Jack Daniels._ Bassman John could only watch in horror as the drummer went nuts on the drink ever so quickly, he practically needed a stretcher to get back up to his room.

_Thanking Gary for that analogy._

“Shit, is he?” John motioned to their almost passed out drummer.

With a laugh, Steve heaved him off of the floor. “He’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time he’s been this blasted, I’ll tell you!”

Both Tony and Steve momentarily abandoned the group to heave their drunken John up to his suite. Returning in remarkable time.

_Ain’t the first time indeed,_ John thought to himself with a small smirk.

“To hell with it.” John voiced. “A good thirty off of music’s finest in one studio tomorrow…” he raised his glass of _Diet Coke;_ as the band hunted for a large booth. “They’re expectin’ some drunks and coke’eads now, aren’t they?”

The remaining four Spandau guys raised their glasses, clinking them merrily before taking a drink. Thankfully, none of them had raised a brow when he decided to _drink_ his coke instead of _sniff_ it…

He was happily shoved into the middle of the ring, John a marmite Taylor filling in the Kemp brothers sandwich.

“True.”

_Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha…_

Tony began, before downing a shot. He didn’t even flinch, John’s eyes widened in some surprise. _He’s a bluesy fucker, suave he is!_ “Which by the way John, you best not be doing tonight.”

Looking at the accusatory finger, the golden insignia ring, John waved Tony off with a small chuckle. “Honestly, don’t need it. Haven’t felt like I don’t need it like this, in a while; you know?”

“Really?” He turned to face Gary. “‘Cos _I saw Duran Duran go crazy on coke!_ ” He sniggered his way through _the_ tabloid headline of the summer, provoking a grumble from John. “Says otherwise, JT.”

  
***  
  


Their night rolled on fantastically, much to John’s surprise. He even swapped his coke for bottled water, by a company he couldn’t pronounce, and thankfully: no man batted an eye. He found that, with the constant talking, the laughter and the easy going mood: that he didn’t need a drink. He didn’t feel much of a need to excuse himself for a line in his hotel suite, then to come back down guns blazing… it was ever so strange. A welcome change, surely.

Picking up on the Christmas #1 chatter, John sent a small but chuffed glanced down at his stomach, to his now unbuttoned leather trousers. He palmed himself once, shivering slightly as his cool fingers made contact. Before drawing away with a sharp breath, hand coming back to resting beside Gary’s on the table. The bets were on, each man placed theirs. The three supposed UK Christmas number ones tracks were yet to be released, Steve and Martin ( _of course from Shirley,_ John remembered he really needed the details on how their ‘friendship’ was blossoming…) having caught wind of the _Wham! Bam!_ track set to hit the shops any day now. And John himself, as a big Frankie fan, knowing that the Liverpool lot were set to go to _Jerusalem_ with their next Godley & Creme video. Not quite going to Hollywood.

Tony motioned to the group, eyes settling on John’s darkened own. “Oh, I think we’ll take it. the top spot. Whatever tomorrow’s gig is.”

“Surely Geldof’s plan has him _making_ a million and _selling_ a million.”

“For the first and _only_ time!” Together, the group erupted into small chuckles and snorts.

“I’ll also place a bet on this geezer,” Gary set a hand atop of John’s for the moment, “gets featured in the video more than any of us!”

_Shit they’re recording?_

“Shit Kemp, they’re recording?!” He grew weary, blushing and stomach bulging. “They’re gonna… _fuck_.” _The weight…_

Casting a glance down, John was thoroughly convinced that he had to be wearing the biggest jumper he owned. Which, unfortunately, only really left him with one option. His blaring red, self promoting Duran jumper. He really needed to update his wardrobe. His, you know, pregnancy wardrobe…

“What’s the matter, Johnny? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Martin’s voice began to pierce at his nightmare, drawing John to him. “Or was it Simon?!”

The whole table erupted into fits of laughter, John wasn’t laughing.

“Hang on, hang on. JT, what is it?” Steve piped up, picking up on the vibe John was putting down.

He was close to tears, forcing himself to swallow them down with his water. He was shaking now. It was almost as though he could sense his front man, he was calling to him. In their shared room, single beds ready to be pushed together. It was almost as though John wanted to be held by him, suddenly needing to claw at Simon’s chest to remind himself that his front man was still here. Still in the building.

And that seemingly unnecessary reminder to tell the man: _oh yeah, hey, this is your child._

“John, hey? Callin’ Planet Earth to you, John.” A click in front of his face, snapped his attention to Tony.

The mood immediately fell.

So did John’s tears, but who’s counting how many?


	4. Chapter 4

Within moments, John was arguing to get out of the chokehold he could’ve sworn he was about to be placed in. The lads were demanding that he talk, that he take a deep breath and to simply talk. John did, with a struggle, casting a bleary glance Gary’s way on his left. Who simply nodded, paving way for John to spill.

Normally he wouldn’t dare dish out the rumours with the competition, though these guys knew the fame. The _game_. They knew it well and played to win.

“What happened with you and Simon, John?”

“Yeah, not just at the gig earlier but—”

“— Why are ya still here with us and not in his arms, somewhere?”

Their voices blurred together in a maddening haze, sailing about John’s suddenly heavy head. John searched for that chance to find his Phoenix to light his flame, seemingly ready to dance into his own fire.

“That fatal kiss was all we needed.” He breathed, shakily, eyes glued to nothing atop the table.

Silence.

“Sorry, what?” Steve’s soft voice beckoned John to speak, encouraging.

“We… y’know, me and Char— _Simon,_ we…”

“You broke up, didn’t you?” Martin sensed his pain, helping to bring him from it.

John nodded, sagely.

“What happened, JT?”

_And I run too far._

Their conversation was long, hearty and heart felt. Even if those around him were mildly intoxicated, the remaining Spandau’s payed close attention to every word. There were no laughs, no taunts, no fag or Omega jokes. John didn’t need to hear them.

If he was being honest with himself, John still wasn’t sure what had prompted him to end it. Prompted Simon to end it. His list of excuses and reasons were long since so jumbled that, swiping away his bitter sting of tears, John really hadn’t a clue anymore. Nothing felt right, nothing would feel right.

And at some point, all his worst fears had come true. John was no longer faced with this band, he awaited anxiously to be confronted by his own.

Simon had appeared, half asleep it seemed. Or wired, John wasn't even sure. Perhaps his band had snuck up their own bottles of liquor, needing to drink away the memories of their careless performance earlier that day. Simon having come searching for him, that much the bassist was sure. A brief flick of his wrist telling John that they were nearing 2AM. He didn’t even notice Nick was there, discussing the plans for tomorrow. Getting to the airport, taking off in both private jets, needing the Metropolitan Police ready for the hoards of manic fans expected at Heathrow for their _Gold! (Gold)_ arrival. Needing hair and makeup to make them all camera ready on the way to Sarm West Studios with the rest of the British Pop scene…

“Johnny, baby?”

He straightened up.

“What’s going on here?”

_When Two Tribes go to war…_

“Will you come to bed?”

_A point is all that you can score…_

“Johnny, please. We have to be up bright and early—”

“— Fuck it.” John sprang up, clambering out of the booth.

"To be fair, you all could benefit from a kip, too. Right?"

Gary was the first to speak, the hush of the crowd really dampening the mood. "Actually Simon, we're all still on Japan time havin' flown in from there. We'll all hit the hay after recording."

John sauntered straight past a ruffled Simon, muttering, brushing the last of the water from his face as he stormed for the lift.

He didn’t miss Simon’s, “fuck, how much did he have to drink?” And couldn’t help but smile in triumph when the Spandau guys told him: “nothing. Stone cold sober. What a freak.”

Nick almost caught him, with a cringe worthy ‘hand stopping the lift’ moment. John didn’t bother trying to stop the lift.

  
***  
  


Standing in the middle of the grand hotel lobby at almost 5AM, the morning of the 25th, aptly decorated in rich Christmas decorations and grand lights entwined with the fur, John dropped all that he was holding. Gary was at his side, picking up his dropped suitcase. He talked him briefly through the itinerary, even though they were still on Japan time from their interrupted tour and a little hazy on the timings himself.

Faced with two imposing Rolls Royce’s, one for each group, two sets of somewhat hungover and straggly band members headed to their designated cars. John’s steps were weary, incredibly slow and laboured. The action didn’t go unnoticed by either camp, both Andy and Martin coming to his side.

They were speaking to him yet John couldn’t hear, keeping one beady eye on Simon upfront. Before the front man slipped into their car, followed by a frosty Nick in his shades.

“John, how did it go with him tonight?" John said nothing, waving Steve off. "Did you sleep at all?" He shrugged. "Try get some shut eye on the flight home, yeah?" 

John watched him slip from his sight, a small smile crossing those pasty lips. Cars were being loaded, both bands splitting off.

"Do you want to fly across with us?” Martin’s strong hand on his forearm stopped his trudging. John turned to face him, breathing ragged. “You look like you need _saving_.”

“The hell is this, John? What’s goin’ on?” Andy quipped, whipping off his sunglasses.

They were backed by the rising sun, trying to greet their festive November morning. John simply turned, walking away from Andy’s worried ray of light.

For reasons that he didn’t understand, he didn’t bother to try and think it through: John found himself clambering into Spandau’s car, much to their own surprise. He was greeted curtly, nodding to each slightly hungover man. They had all changed, seemingly haven’t slept that much and yet each band member was presentable, raring to go.

John looked like he was the canary that had merely scrambled away from the cat. "There's somethin' I wanna, you know, tell you guys. Can I trust you to not rat me out, to Duran or the press?" 

Each man leaned in, nodding and muttering their agreement. John's breathing was ragged and he could've sworn he could void his stomach at any moment. Though fortunately, he managed to keep it down, forcing himself to keep clinging to consciousness long enough to deliver his few words. He couldn't understand why he was doing this, why he felt the need to. But, every gut instinct was telling the bassist to spill. These men could be trusted and if not now, John would be descending further into madness trying to keep quiet.

It was too late before he realised, tears clogging his better vision, that he was near another breakdown.

"I'm... Christ," he sent a shakily look up at the blackened ceiling, inhaling a deep breath. "I'm knocked up, guys. say what you will... I don't wanna 'ear it now. Just promise me, that none of ya's will tell anyone. My band... they don't know, only Roger does."

The whole crew were stunned into near silence, only John's little hitches of breaths and sobs pierced the tense air. Thankfully for him, secrets would be kept, no man showed him any hostility. If he could even dare to admit it, he was beginning to feel better in himself for speaking those very few, cruel words.

"You lot all know plenty, from last night. I ain't felt so guilty, skirting around why we're _really_ broken up. The reasons are endless but, you know." Trailing off, John simply cast a glance downwards, quivering hand coming to rest atop of his little miracle.

"You're leaving him to have his--" Martin stopped himself. It was too soon, too hard to digest.

"Hell, at least you're not drinking." Tony muttered, almost escaping John's notice.

“C’mere, man.” Those arms were open. John told himself that he wouldn’t weep like a pathetic little school girl again, even when Gary beckoned him into the embrace. He swallowed thickly, gulping down the salt and feeling his stomach do a flip. "If it helps, I don't think no less of you. You don't need any validation from us, though."

Immediately, the other car screeched into gear. Taking the Duran four off speeding to the Flughafen. John watched them go, placing a hand up to the tinted window.

"Do you feel any better, talking to us, John?"

Raising his head, John searched for the other John's silhouette. The bassist nodded, over and over, a small smile of relief sweeping his face.

"No one's gonna say anything, no body needs too. Though you should tell them, Johnny."

"All in good time, I guess?" John shrugged as their car growled into gear, surprising him.

Knowing that he would be following, running through the same hellish hoards of fans at both here and Heathrow with them; walking onto the same tarmac as Duran, disembarking onto the same tarmac… John erected that wall and found himself stuck to Gary’s side.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really know how we ended up with this but here we are.
> 
> Merry (early) Christmas, thank you for a wonderful fic year of engagement and encouragement. ♥️

Clambering out the _Rolls Royce,_ the absolute wrong choice of car for the cause, John shivered bodily as he was faced with the cameras. He had had a moment of self realisation, knowing that he really needed to be seen walking in with his band. Andy was shattered, drinking God knows what from a brown paper bag. Nick looked presentable, Roger maybe was there. Simon… John could only sigh. He appeared as ravishing as ever, in that clashing striped blazer and silken shirt combo.

So he did keep close, keeping mute the whole drive down, trudging down. All smiles. _Eyes and teeth,_ just like Simon had taught him long ago.

**_It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid._ **

****

They were all smiles though at the studios entrance, admiring the other a-listers who _walked_ in. He caught sight of Tony and Gary, the guitarist sending a knowing smile his way. Posing for photos, John’s mind was blank save for ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.’ Simon’s hand on his shoulder, Simon’s hand on his lower back to usher him in… John stalled, shoving his hands into his cream boxy coat, standing stock still unable to answer another reporter.

**_At Christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade._ **

He simply sauntered into Sarm West, a bitter sting pricking at his eyes. Those tears were close to coming but they weren’t needed today.

That would be Simon’s game anyway - it’s probably some of John’s coke in his eye!

**_And in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy._ **

****

The morning passed on grudgingly. Weary pop star here, cokey pop star there. In their world of plenty. John didn’t recall a moment, other than rocking about with his bass.

All that he could recall was Simon up front and centre before Bob and Midge, petrified of singing with Sting. John found himself enrapt, a petrified moth to his front man’s flickering flame, as he rattled off take after take. Voice hoarse, exhausted.

John’s eyes were wide, breathing ragged as he bought his arms to cross his chest.

**_Throw your arms around the world at Christmas time._ **

Squeezing not only the Duran Duran logo he should’ve been wearing with pride but, his little Christmas miracle too. Not quite ready to throw his arms around the world, Simon’s world, this Christmas time. He’d be kidding himself if he could even recall anyone else’s bar Simon’s lines.

**Author's Note:**

> Though it’s early and I still have John/Renée fic to post (not just the ‘reindeer’ AU but those other stories may never see the light on here) this is likely my Christmas story of the year.
> 
> A bonus chapter of Duran VS Spandau on _Pop Quiz _may be in order for my own enjoyment and angsty JoSi at Christmastime... Merry Christmas and all the best for 2021, hopefully nothing will be as bad as this shitty year come and somehow almost gone.__


End file.
